Wires are jazzy, vibrate, shaking
with sound like jazz hands, deaf applause,
echoing loudly in silence,
like my hands, electric, shocky.
Cocooned, there’s no sound outside me.
My ears shriek with tessellations
of high pitched reverberation,
overlapped, a blurred aural edge.
The dead air scrapes my nerves rough, raw,
like ultrasonics, piano wires
out of tune. Call the crisis line?
Right. Dialing. How do I explain?
If there are words people can use
to describe what happened, they aren’t
ones I learned in the sex ed class
at school. I don’t know what to say.
It doesn’t matter. When I try,
I cry. When the words leave my mouth
they are the wrong words. “Is this rape?”
I ask. The phone goes click. Dial tone.